


Rare Is This Love (Keep It Covered)

by kataurah



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Season/Series 07, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/kataurah
Summary: When Daryl next lays eyes on Carol, the day the Saviours attack Alexandria, riding through the gates with Ezekiel and two dozen other people like some damn post-apocalyptic Joan of Arc, his first reaction isn't relief, it's terror.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 48





	Rare Is This Love (Keep It Covered)

**Author's Note:**

> A season 7 finale speculation fic, written before it aired. Cross posted on Nine Lives.

When Daryl next lays eyes on Carol, the day the Saviours attack Alexandria, riding through the gates with Ezekiel and two dozen other people like some damn post-apocalyptic Joan of Arc, his first reaction isn't relief, it's terror. Because she is here, in the thick of it again, doing the exact thing he'd tried so hard to protect her from, and if she doesn't die today, she'd told him there'll be nothing left of her anyway if she is forced to kill again.

She'll disappear for good, fade away, and if that happens she might as well take him with her. He'd been fighting, holding on, for her, and without her it'll all be for nothing. And so he throws himself into the fray, the chaos of bodies, bullets, and horses, trying desperately to reach her, to not lose sight of her.

Whilst she'd been tucked away in that house, he'd told himself she was safe. Or safer than the rest of them. He could focus, breathe, and do what needed to be done so she wouldn't have to... _She's not supposed to be here_. And she's even more of a target right now on that damn horse.

For a split second their eyes meet and time stops; he sees her inhale sharply, eyes wide with relief and fear and need, mirroring his own, then a body barrels into his chest, knocking him to the ground and the breath from his lungs. He lands hard, with the weight of his attacker crushing him further, and his hands fly up to land punches, grabbing and yanking at clothing, anything to throw the other man off.

There's the glint of a knife, and he catches the wrist of the hand holding it just in time, holds it, shaking, inches away from his eye as the man (stupid moustache, sadistic grin, _Simon says_ ) forces it down.

"Found you," Simon smirks, "Didn't beat any sense into you then."

Daryl growls, bucking upwards, trying to dislodge Simon, to free his other hand where it's pinned to the ground, but his shoulder is still weak, and as he strains his muscles, the injury flares up, hot and angry. He tries uselessly to bend his legs, to get some leverage to kick out, but most of his concentration is going into holding the knife at bay. Then he's seized by an idea that may or may not kill him, twists his head away as far as he can and let's the knife fall. He feels the sharp edge slice shallowly into his neck, but more importantly Simon is thrown off balance, topples forward, and Daryl manages to wrestle him over and punch him a couple times before the other man digs his fingers into his shoulder, where the white dressing is an obvious target. Pain radiates through his arm and chest and Daryl cries out, his muscles buckling. But before Simon can gain the upper hand again, there are running footfalls and a shot rings out close behind Daryl. He watches it find its (hopefully) intended target in Simon's head, small caliber bullet leaving only a small hole and a thin trickle of blood as the body slumps.

Daryl lies in the grass, panting, knowing he should be up and moving already, looks for whoever it was who just saved his ass, and of course there's Carol falling to her knees next to him, reaching for him. There's an ache in his chest at the thought that she'd just ended up doing the very thing Daryl had sworn to himself he wouldn't let happen: kill for _him_. He'd thought at the very least he could protect her from that, no matter what happened, but he's failed her again.

"You're bleeding." Carol touches his neck gingerly, radiating concern, and her fingers come away bloody. Daryl can't stand to see blood marring her skin again, and he sits up next to her, grabbing her hand and rubbing with his thumb, as if he could just wipe it away and turn back time just a couple of minutes. "Daryl?"

"You shouldn't'a..." He swallows down the lump in his throat; she's here, he's touching her when he had no idea whether he ever would again, and she's looking at him with those beautiful blue eyes, full of fierce, protective love, and he couldn't protect her from killing again to save his worthless ass. "Never wanted you to have to do that."

He looks down at their hands, where Carol has loosely interlocked their fingers, smudged with red and drying sticky. His hair falls like a curtain over his face, only for Carol to run her fingers through it, pushing it back. He can feel her gaze; this close it should make him feel exposed, make him flinch, but for a long time now he hasn’t minded Carol seeing him. Because she's the only one who sees him. And when he meets her eyes, there is no pain for what she did, only grim acceptance.

"He hurt you. He was going to kill you."

"An' that's why y'ain't supposed to be here! So you weren't forced to-"

"I couldn't stay away." She squeezes his hand, grief creeping into her voice, "Not once I found out about Glenn and Abraham." There's the pain. God, he'd just wanted to spare her this. Her eyes are swimming with tears and she shifts closer to him, "What they did to you." Anger, now, and Daryl feels that self-loathing at lying to her rise up again.

"Jus' wanted you safe. Didn't wanna pull you back into all this."

"I know," Her voice softens again, "I _know_. I'm not angry with you."

The hand that was in his hair rests in the curve where his neck joins his shoulder, and Daryl just wants to lean further into her arms. But they have to move; it's a miracle they've had this long to catch their breath -

"Well, who is _this_ , Daryl? You been holding out on me!"

That voice, that goddamn infuriating, arrogant voice, is like nails being hammered into Daryl's skull, and he scrambles to his feet, pulling Carol up and behind him (even as she lets out a growl and tries to lunge forward). Negan grins his shit-eating grin and swings that _fucking_ bat.

"You don't fuckin' touch her!"

He knows it's a mistake, trying to hide Carol from Negan's gaze, but he can't stop himself from placing his body between her and the other man. Between her and that bat. It's instinctive for him to cover her, shield her, but it tells Negan everything he needs to know about her importance to Daryl. His eyes light up, vindictive and gleeful.

"Everything and everyone belongs to me, Daryl, remember? You don't get to tell me I can't touch my things."

He's practically shaking with the fury and fear coursing through him, muscles coiled so tight from holding himself in check, and Daryl knows Carol can feel it where she's gripping the arm holding her behind him.

"She ain't yours!" He snarls, thinking of Sherry and feeling sick at the thought of Carol being forced into the same situation.

"She yours, Daryl? Is that it?"

"She's nobody's property!"

All around them there is gunfire, shouting, the groans of the dead that have been drawn to the noise and walked right on in through the open gates, but right now Daryl can only think about how he might storm this fucker and take him down. He's too far away though (and unarmed) that any attempt would give Negan time to get in a decent swing. Carol's shifting behind him and he can _feel_ her trigger finger itching as though it were his own. Negan's eyes flick to the left and down, and he must catch sight of Carol's gun, because his grin widens and he lazily draws his own from where it was tucked into his belt at the small of his back. He aims, sure and steady, at Daryl's head.

“Lord knows I prefer the sweet feel of Lucille getting her due, but I’m not stupid,” He cocks his head in consideration, "Reckon you can shoot me, sweetheart, before I put one in your boy, here?" Suddenly, somewhere, there is an almighty roar, and for the first time Daryl sees a look of genuine alarm cross Negan's face. "Crazy bastard. Who the fuck brings a tiger to a firefight?"

The snarling of walkers is growing louder, coming closer, and then Carol is urgently saying his name, tugging him backwards and pressing a knife - Simon’s - into his hand. The first walkers stumble into view, and Daryl realises she's put the oncoming hoard between themselves and Negan. He doesn't want to run, he wants to tear the sonofabitch apart, beat him bloody, drag his broken body and dump it at Maggie and Sasha's feet to do with as they please.

But Carol is still pulling him away with her and he can't see Negan anymore. Daryl takes down a walker, two, backs up further but the ones on the outskirts of the hoard are following them now. All he can hear is rattling groans, Shiva roaring, and Rick... Rick is calling both their names.

He glances towards the sound of Rick's voice for a split second to see him, Michonne, Tara and Aaron running towards them, and then they're all fighting together, working like a well-oiled machine, and breathing comes just a little easier with moments of respite between each kill. Daryl keeps Carol close, though, attuned to her body, her movements, the way she fights, like a sixth sense.

"Ezekiel has them on the run!" Rick tells him, between panted breaths, and he's grinning like a fucking lunatic. Daryl can only grunt in acknowledgement; the Kingdom came through, and it's clear to him that it's all because of Carol. He's going to make damn sure everyone else knows it too, if they survive this.

And somehow they do, just like they've survived everything else up to this point. One moment and suddenly it's over. Daryl looks around, gasping for breath and covered in blood, most of it walker, but some human, some his own, and he no longer has to lift his knife ready for the next corpse.

He feels as though he's gone deaf, after the noise of the battle and his own pulse racing in his ears, everything is quiet. At some point, after the Saviours had gone, it seems someone had managed to close the gates. Once more, there are bodies scattered all over Alexandria.

Daryl looks around, trying to clock every member of his family, many of whom are running over to hug Carol, and with every one that appears, he feels the knot of anxiety loosen in his chest. _Everyone's okay, everyone's okay,_ he's sure of it, until he sees Maggie and Jesus sat on the ground, heads bowed over Sasha's still body, and something else breaks inside his chest where he swore he couldn't take anymore.

What an idiot he was to think, even for a second, that they could all be okay; that Maggie, who has lost enough, whose silent tears are tearing him apart, wouldn't have to suffer _again_.

Rick's not smiling anymore, Michonne is openly crying, and Carol is next to him again, taking his hand and leaning her forehead against his shoulder; she's trembling. Daryl wants to wrap his arms around her, but his limbs feel like lead; he's crashing down from the adrenaline, the high of victory dissipating in the wake of grief. So he just clutches her hand like a lifeline, swallowing down the scream that's trying to claw its way out of his throat.

Carol takes a few deep, steadying breaths before lifting her face. She looks at him, eyes wet, tear stains on her cheeks, like he's the one keeping her tethered to the Earth instead of the other way around. Reaching up, she rests a hand gently on his cheek, then his breath catches as she leans in and brushes her lips over his. It is the lightest of kisses, the touch of her mouth barely there and gone again before he can even register it, let alone reciprocate, but warmth rushes through his veins again, brings him back to life a little. She lets her hand trail down his face as she steps away, turning then and walking towards Maggie, who seems to collapse inside upon seeing her, letting go of her iron strength for a moment to allow Carol to fold her into her arms.

They cry together, Carol murmuring quietly to the younger woman, and Daryl can only imagine what she is saying, but he watches Maggie lay a protective hand over her stomach.

Daryl thinks about Glenn. And Hershel, and Beth, and Sasha... And he wants to fight the world for being so fucking cruel. To Maggie. To all of them. Instead he stalks away, unable to look at his family in pain anymore, and buries his fist in the wall at the side of their house instead, again and again until the brick is stained red and his knuckles are scraped raw and bleeding.

The self-loathing part of him is tempted to leave the wound like that, embedded with dirt and grit, and let it fester, but he thinks of how stupid it would be to lose a hand just because he couldn't stop himself from pointlessly lashing out, punishing himself more than anything.

He thinks of how angry Carol would be; how his pain would be hers, if the strength of her feelings come anywhere close to how he feels about her. It hurts him to see her suffering, like a knife piercing underneath his ribs and prising him open.

So he forces the hurricane inside him to be still, enters the house, empty and quiet, and heads upstairs to shower. And if there are tears mixed in with the hot water as it washes away the filth, soothes his aching, battered body, well, he can lie to himself and pretend otherwise. He watches the blood from his knuckles turn the water pink, swirling down the drain, and relishes in the sting of the spray hitting open wounds. The heat is relaxing his tense muscles, but it's also draining what little energy he has left, and soon he's swaying on the spot.

Embarrassing visions of passing out on the shower floor have him moving, and it's dark outside by the time he stumbles out of the bathroom, into a change of clothes, and collapses on the bed. His body feels like it's weighted down, he's tired to his bones, but his mind won't shut up. He can hear other people moving around the house now, and immediately he wonders where Carol is, regrets leaving her.

What if she'd left again? Gone back to the Kingdom with Ezekiel without even saying goodbye, thinking that she'd scared him off with the smallest of kisses that was at once too much and far from enough. She'd left him _aching_ for her, afraid of where they'd go from here, but ready to face that fear with her, for her, and now he has no idea where she is.

He's on the verge of working himself up into a full blown panic attack and somehow dragging himself out into the street to look for her, when she appears, as though his distress summoned her, in the doorway.

Her hair is damp from (he assumes) her own shower, drying in fluffy curls, and her clothes look soft; sweatpants and a t shirt, where he'd just pulled on another pair of jeans and a shirt. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she looks weary and sad, but open and vulnerable in a way he's never seen her be in Alexandria before.

"Couldn't find you," She says, quietly, perhaps sensing his need for some peace and solitude (that doesn't extend to her, never her), "I was worried."

He feels that regret again, tries for a moment to sit up, but the urgency he felt a moment ago has left at the sight of her and his muscles won't cooperate, so he ends up flopping onto his side, facing her.

"Was gonna come find you."

She's looking at him fondly, gives a little snort that he shouldn't find adorable,

"Really? 'Cause you look pretty comfortable over there."

He allows her gentle teasing, he's missed it so much. "Tired."

"Mmm." She hums in agreement. She does look exhausted, he thinks, and much too far away. He flails a hand at her,

"C'mere?"

He realises a second too late that he beckoned her over with his injured hand, and Carol's face pinches in a worried frown. But she doesn't say anything until she's closed the door behind her and settled down on the bed opposite him, mirroring his position. Daryl is very aware of the small space between their bodies; it feels heated, charged. All the more so when she takes his hand in both of hers, fingers skimming the edges of his busted knuckles. They feel stiff and swollen now, but her touch is feather-light, and for a moment Daryl is mesmerised by the sight of his larger hand cradled between her smaller, graceful ones.

He knows he doesn't have to explain when she shoots him a pained, reproachful look.

"M'sorry I left." He mumbles instead, but Carol shakes her head,

"It just gets harder, every time."

"Yeah. But that's why I shouldn'ta left you."

It's only the truth, but there's so much emotion in the tremulous smile she gives him, and the brightness of her eyes. Carol curls a little closer to him and ducks her head to press a kiss just above his torn knuckles, and his breath catches, remembering the way her lips felt on his for that all too brief moment.

They lie there for a while, simply looking at each other, content to just breathe and drink in each other's presence. They remain joined only by their hands, but close enough that Daryl feels each warm exhale of hers whisper over his face; close enough to smell traces of something sweet that she used in the shower.

He watches her gradually relax into the mattress, the moment she gives herself permission to rest, and wonders once more at the trust she has in him. She's spent months (most of her life, really) wearing one mask or another, but she's allowing him to see her completely unguarded and vulnerable. Right now she's just herself; she's Carol, whom he loves with every fibre of his being.

"I am yours, though," She murmurs suddenly, quiet but clear, and Daryl struggles to comprehend her words, can't recall, for a moment, the exchange between himself and Negan that she's referring to, because he doesn't want to think about Negan whilst he's lying here safe and warm with Carol. Eventually though his brain catches up, and there's nothing but conviction in her eyes, holding his across the scant space between them. And love, he thinks, unable to break her gaze, even as his heart thuds painfully in his chest with hope and terror: conviction and love. "Just like you're mine."

Now that she's said it, Daryl knows it's true; it feels like it always has been, stretching back to the very beginning when they were just strangers with a surprising, unspoken understanding. Back when they recognised the depths to each other that no one else was willing, or had any interest, to see. And he knows that she doesn't mean it the way Negan does; she doesn't mean that they've claimed ownership over each other, because neither of them has taken what was willingly given.

He's never wanted to shout it to world, his love for Carol, partly because he's never been that person to openly display anything so personal. But also because what they have feels rare and precious (impossible, he'd thought, for the likes of him), and he wants to tuck it (and her) away safe, hidden from people like Negan who'd want to ruin and destroy it, and only take it out when it's just the two of them alone, like this.

Sometimes though, the strength of it just can't be contained, and spills over into yearning stares and desperate clinging hugs. He'll never forget the moment she appeared in the woods outside Terminus. He'd thought her lost to him forever, but there she was, whole and beautiful, and so _unsure_ of her welcome that he couldn't waste another second without letting her know just how much he'd missed her; how much he needed her.

It all came pouring out of him and he'd nearly knocked them both to the ground, swept her off her feet, staggering around in an effort to get closer, _closer_ , trying to burrow into her. But it was nowhere near long enough before he'd been reminded that they had an audience, so he'd reigned himself in when all he'd wanted was more of her touch. For the first time in his life he never wanted to stop _touching_. And for a long time afterwards he wondered what lines he might've been brave enough to cross had they been alone.

But all that matters is that they are alone now, and he doesn't think that anyone will come looking for them tonight. He can let his guard down too (as much as he is capable of. She is the only person he wants to do so with.) He can be brave and not worry about anyone interrupting and making him feel awkward and embarrassed; it's just him and Carol, and Carol will never ridicule him.

So he steels his resolve, shuffles a little closer so he can press his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and hearing the little hitch in her breathing that tells him she's just as affected by their closeness, and lets her ground him in the way only she can. Carol is the centre of the whole damn universe for him, her gravity pulls him in and keeps him orbiting, on course. Without her he's hurtling through space, directionless and alone.

He takes a deep breath, "Yeah," It comes out as a gravelly whisper, "Yeah, 'm yours."

She releases a shaky sigh, tilts her face ever so slightly upwards, her nose brushing against his, in a way that's both inviting and questioning, not asking for more than he's willing to give. He's ready though, and he barely has to move to find her lips with his own, warm and soft, in a gentle kiss.

It's slow and chaste, but Daryl feels heat spreading through his body anyway, feels a tightness in his chest when Carol lets out a little hum, like she's happy, like this means as much to her as it does to him, and _that_ makes him feel so accepted, so loved, that there's a dangerous prickling behind his closed eyelids.

The kiss remains careful and sweet, their hands never straying from where they're still tangled together between their chests, and when it ends (after a minute or an hour, Daryl couldn't say), Carol's smile when her eyes flutter open is radiant, and fuck, he really is going to cry here.

He wants to tell her he loves her, that she's the thing he's holding on to and that he's not sure he could survive losing her, but the only word that comes out, cracking a little with emotion, is:

"Stay."

He knows Carol understands the weight behind that one word, what he's really asking, by the pause that follows. Her eyes flicker over his face, and she purses her mouth a little, before she nods, bringing a hand up to stroke his cheek, then settling it over his heart. Daryl frees his own hand to draw her closer into the cradle of his arms, and together they let themselves succumb to exhaustion.

Carol's breathing evens out and Daryl's last thought before he falls asleep too is that if she wants to leave again, he will follow her anywhere, but for now she is staying.


End file.
